


The Other Contest

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Captivity, M/M, Other, Rape for Sport, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-25 06:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Loki will not lose.





	The Other Contest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> It was so lovely to write for you, lionessvalenti! Hope you enjoy this :)

Loki will not lose.

He has the advantage of rest on his side this time; his last bout required a full week of recovery. Loki slept in an actual bed during this stretch - though “sleep” is a kind term. The pain was piercing, and every few hours, he stumbled out of bed to heave into the toilet.

All fine, Loki tells himself. This is what Loki must do to survive. He is still a god, even in this lowly place. Rightful King of the Jotunheim. Prince of Asgard. Odinson.

Crusty spotlights blare overhead, and Loki shields his face with a raised forearm. Warded, metal shackles are clasped around Loki's wrists. His seidr has been reduced to a whisper behind an impenetrable wall. Magic is life to Loki. Without it, he feels broken.

But, even broken, he must fight.

Above the pit, this evening's audience hoots and cackles. The blessing of this garish light is an inability to see the filth that turns out to watch these spectacles. Hearing them is enough - their mirth at Loki’s expense, their loud wagers. Does the line favor Loki tonight, he wonders. If not, they will be sorry.

Loki scowls at the twin daggers in his hands. Rusted and dull, far from the quality of his favored weapons. Those, of course, are not allowed here. Loki must make use of whatever is available on Sakaar. Combatants in Loki’s position select weapons only after the fighters on the main Contest cards. The selection is dismal; blunt, blood caked jokes.

It does not matter. Loki will not lose. He cannot lose again.

“I’ve gotta tell you, Loki, I feel good about this.” Loki stiffens at a hand in the small of his back. The Grandmaster is smiling. “You’ve had a rough go lately, but I believe in you!”

A laugh froths in Loki’s throat. “I’m sure that will make all the difference,” he spits.

The Grandmaster grins, oblivious or unbothered by the sarcasm. “Hey, it can’t hurt.” He kisses Loki's cheek. “For luck,” the Grandmaster says.

Foolishly, Loki’s heartbeat quickens. Maybe this is a sign of his fortunes turning. If he carries the Grandmaster’s favor, will a victory follow?

Never mind what may await Loki if he were to _win_ this awful exhibition. If it keeps Loki alive, he will deal with the consequences of winning. Losing is not an option.

Loki looks to the other side of the pit. A wall panel rises, creaking like nails on a chalkboard. Loki squints through light and dust. A figure is walking towards him. Amphibious, by the looks of things. Eight arms, and - damn, the teeth.

A'askavariian; a large specimen, head and shoulders above Loki. Male, it seems, by the strict lines of his face. Each side of his body bears four interconnected green tentacles. The limbs are each thick as Loki’s arms, and the legs are far heavier. The A'askavariian’s feet resemble tree trunks with long, black nails. His teeth are a sharp fence of needlepoints.

Two positives sit in Loki’s favor. One, the creature has not elected to use weapons. Loki does not need to fear the slice of a blade during this bout. If he keeps his distance and uses his speed, he can bide his time until the larger being tires himself out.

Two, the A’askavarii are a pacifist race. They will fight, as all do when provoked. But they are not a warrior culture well-versed in militaristic pursuits. In strategy, as in speed, Loki will have the advantage.

A life-sized projection of the Grandmaster materializes in the pit's center to introduce them. Loki is labeled “that scrumptious prince from...Assberg? Assgard? Who knows, but royalty! Am I right?”

His opponent is “Twi’zar...did I say that right? Twy? Twee? You get the picture. A’askavariian; he's got hands and knows how to use ‘em. What a show! You ready, boys? Eyes on the prize now. Begin!” The projection disappears.

Loki grips his daggers tightly. His opponent bares sharp fangs and extends his many arms - his form of balling fists, it seems.

They circle each other warily. From above, shouts rain down, cheers and impatient screams.

May as well test his wingspan. Loki sprints in, weapons bared. All four arms on one side bear back at once. They twist together - interesting - forming one hammer-like fist. Loki barely dodges in time to miss the blow. He has the creature’s back - he sprints in, drawing blood! Blue, thick as jam, gooping down the creature’s skin.

Loki dodges another fist, but - shit, an arm from his right side. It isn’t much of a blow, but it strikes a solid smack to the face. Loki stumbles to a safe distance and dabs blood from his lips.

A sudden assault of bass drowns out the crowd's cries. Synthetic cords echo off the pit’s high walls, and the spotlights sway in time. A beam strikes Loki's eyes, and he cringes and veers right. He barely ducks a twine of limbs.

 _Make him swing. When he misses, he’s wide open._ Can Thor see Loki now? Is his dear, dead brother proud that his voice fills Loki’s head?

It works. Loki’s knives find a leg. Blue blood sticks to his hands.

He miscalculates, and one limb of eight strikes true. Loki scrubs blood from his forehead before it can blind his eyes. His head pounds in time with his throbbing heartbeat.

The A'askavariian’s skin is thick. It takes many passes to pierce him. Loki is well-conditioned, though. However long it takes, he will not lose.

Loki jumps and weaves under desperate arms. He has the creature on one knee! Loki cuts straight through the creature’s face. His full expanse of teeth shows through his opened cheek.

The A'askavariian’s head is down. Surrender. Blood puddles before the kneeling warrior.

Loki stalks forward with knives at the ready. At the very least, he will relieve the creature of this indignity. Death is a kinder fate than this so-called "sport." He stands over the warrior, poised to strike.

Pain reverberates in a sudden onslaught from Loki’s neck. The buzzing rattles his brain and seizes every muscle. Loki drops like a felled tree. He spasms and convulses in the dirt, daggers tripping from his grip.

The buzzing will not stop. Loki moans and writhes, and the spotlights blare on him. The world hazes in and out of view.

When the obedience disc silences, Loki only manages a twitch of fingers. They tingle worryingly. Loki turns, and his brain sloshes inside his skull. Sickness churns in his belly, and he swallows to keep from vomiting. In his current malaise, the spotlights scorch like suns. The ground seems to shiver under his back.

Fabric tears.

At first, the eased weight of Loki’s armor is a relief. Cool air sweeps over his naked torso like the first breeze of an Asgardian autumn.

Dread does not set in until Loki feels this same freedom below his waist. His pants tear away in one crude motion. Loki gasps and coughs. Brand new bruises scream from his back.

From the static roar overhead, Loki knows that his body is exposed. Loki lies in a mess of leather and metal, pale skin broken by cherry red blood. Were Jotun’s winter to blossom from Loki at this moment, would his pretty Aesir blood turn blue?

Loki stretches a desperate hand for a dagger. It is one finger's length out of reach. Loki tries to scramble to his side, he gives all his strength to reach it.

A sharp smack across the face stops him. Loki’s head cracks against the dirt. Bile rises sharply, and Loki gags.

He struggles against the limbs that wind snake-like around his ankles. His arms are pinned too, laced like vambraces by green skin. Soupy, midnight blood dribbles from the A'askavariian’s open cheek.

“Kill me,” Loki rasps. “Please.”

"I can’t,” Loki understands through the All-Speak. He finds no pleasure in his opponent’s eyes. It is the same glassed emptiness that must reflect from Loki’s own.

The Grandmaster likely did not need to threaten his foe. On Sakaar, saying not to do something is enough.

“Knock me out,” Loki pursues, voice rising in panic. “An arm around my neck. Or- or force my head into the ground. Do what you must, but-”

“I can’t,” the A'askavariian says. This, of course, he has been warned against too.

Tears burn sudden and vicious in Loki's eyes. “Do it quickly,” Loki whispers. The A'askavariian shakes his head.

Loki wants to kill, he wants to scream! He wants to die, All-Fathers please, he wants to die. The halls of Valhalla will not welcome Loki in such a state, but he is beyond caring. He will greet the beasts of Hel or fade into eternal night. Anything must be better than this.

The A'askavariian stretches Loki's arms above his head. He kicks at tentacles coiled around his ankles. Rounded nubs tickle his feet. Loki twists, tears scarring his face in salt.

“Odin... Father, please,” he whispers. Mightiest of All-Fathers; surely Odin can put Loki out of his misery. One kindness for the runt child he stole from a temple of ice.

“Looks like Twy...Twee...has our little prince in quite a state!” The Grandmaster’s gleeful voice tickles the loudspeakers. “Our sweet Lo - Twy, why don’t you perk him up a bit? We didn’t come here to see a downer, am I right?”

Loki shrinks from the presence that nooses around his cock. “No,” he rasps. His voice shakes, how humiliating. He tries to gather his strength, tries to think of a plan. Something, anything!

There is nothing. Loki has nothing.

He fights to close his legs, bucking against the thick, green body. Knees wide as pines collide with his. Loki yelps. His legs do not snap somehow, but they could. The creature could rip Loki apart in this state.

“Stop,” the A'askavariian says, no, _begs_. The tentacle around Loki's cock squeezes.

Fresh, furious tears spill down Loki’s cheeks. Loki tries to writhe away. He hurts so much, ghosts of the obedience disk spasming through his body. Bruises layer Loki's body, his blood fresh on the dirt. The limb around his dick pulses. Unwanted heat swamps in Loki’s gut. He shakes his head against it.

A fresh limb - thicker, wetter - squirms between Loki’s legs. Loki heaves at the shock, spitting up nothing.

“Brother,” Loki gasps, “strike me down. Thor, please.” Can't Thor see him from the grand halls of eternity? Has he even cared to look?

Why should he? This must seem an apt fate for his unworthy brother.

Loki screams against the limb that forces past his lips. Thick and slick, it weighs his tongue down and fattens his cheeks. Its tip squirms against the roof of Loki’s mouth. Loki’s stomach revolts. He bites hard, but the A'askavariian’s skin is too thick. It is Loki’s mouth that suffers. He tastes salt and a strange tang on his tongue. Loki’s head swims.

The creature’s limb jams to the back of his throat. Loki wretches painfully. Tears smear across his face. “Stay. Still,” the A'askavariian hisses. His voice gurgles, blood caked to his black tongue.

“Now that’s what you do to a mouth like Lo’s. My oh my!” The Grandmaster snickers over the loudspeaker. “Take him both ways, Twy. Let’s see what he likes best.”

Loki shakes his head wildly, thrashing with muffled shrieks. The limb in his mouth slams back with sudden force. Loki sees stars, and numbness settles heavily on his bones.

A limb slithers between Loki’s thighs.

The A'askavariian is naturally slick, more so post-battle, but it is nowhere near enough. Loki feels the thing twist inside him, curling like a playful snake. The binds around Loki’s legs force them to stretch wider. His knees are urged to bend, thighs spread in a wide bow. The coil around Loki’s cock squeezes.

“What do you say, folks? Mouth or ass? I'd say it’s a tie. You’re doing great, sweetheart. Keep it up! Or, heh, guess you’re not having much problem with that, huh?”

The being fucks Loki hard, settling into a wretched rhythm. It’s not like Loki is used to, no thrust of a body behind the unnatural pressure. The limb worms deeper inside. Loki’s vision swims and, against his will, his waist bucks. Pleasure and revulsion burst through his stomach.

He whimpers around the arm in his mouth. It twists in a lazy loop, and Loki’s gut goes sour. He struggles to swallow back bile without choking on the A'askavariian’s arm. It does not seem to be content, breaching until Loki’s air grows short. Dizziness blurs his eyes.

Loki wonders if Mother can see this. Her poor, illegitimate son reduced to the slave he was always meant to be.

The arm seems to gain girth the deeper it climbs up his tongue. Loki shakes his head frantically. He snuffles back his tears, trying to clear his nose, red in the face, wheezing. Spit dribbles down Loki's chin. Loki gags, senses flooded with the taste of the creature’s sweat.

The limb between his legs grows too. Hard, turbulent motions swell Loki’s asshole to an angry red. The arm expands to double its size. It drives deep, and Loki screams around the girth in his mouth. Pain stabs through his core. Loki’s shaft is a furious blush, over squeezed and too sensitive.

Norns, why won’t Thor strike him down? Can't his brother hear him begging!?

“What a gift, Loki, what a treasure,” the Grandmaster purrs from above. “Let’s give him a hand, folks. He’s taking it like a real champ. Come on, let's cheer him on!”

The crowd begins chanting his name. It spills over him in a tide of cackles. _”Loki, Loki, Loki, Loki!”_ Louder with every repetition, louder still with every thrust. His blood runs with the creature’s secretion. Loki is thankful for the extra lubrication.

The A'askavariian wrings Loki's cock in a manner that suggests he is not used to sex with Loki's kind. He has no idea how to stroke him, every tug like the fisting of a rope. Loki shrinks in his assailant’s grip. One more drop of pain in his sea of anguish.

How long will it go on? Loki does not know how an A'askavariian orgasms. Does the species climax at all? And if he does, will that matter? Is this performance dependent on Loki? Maybe this creature will fuck Loki until he dies. Maybe Loki has already died, and this is his own personal Hel.

The limb inside Loki’s mouth shudders. It’s only then that Loki realizes he’s been laughing. Quiet, high pitched giggles of madness.

After this, Loki lies still and silent. Blood stains the insides of his thighs. Saliva sticks to Loki’s face, and sweat dries around his glassy eyes.

Time must pass. Or does it? Time is a slippery thing on Sakaar. Has Loki been here for days? Years?

Dazed, Loki feels his own hips spasm. A limb fixes to his deepest point, sucking without mercy. Loki wets his own filthy stomach with a few streaks of seed. His cock wilts quickly, and the pleasure is non-existent. Loki lies numb on the ground.

“That was - wow, wow, _wow_!”

Loki’s gasps when the arm is abruptly yanked from his mouth. A whimper follows, his abused asshole vacated too fast. The A'askavariian’s limb snags at his rim. Loki’s world tilts and hazes over.

Thor has abandoned him. Everyone has abandoned him.

The world is fuzzy and too bright. Loki’s lies in dirt, covered in spit and cum. He blinks slowly at the sun-like spotlights overhead. Is he awake? Blood and his foe's sweat tack between his legs. A nightmare, surely, just a horrible dream.

Loki flinches away from blue nails that comb through his hair. The Grandmaster kneels close. “You may not feel like a winner right now, Lo,” he soothes, “but I want you to know that what you gave us tonight was special. I mean, wow."

There is a commotion nearby.

“Loki honey?” Nails on Loki's jaw force him to lift his head. The Grandmaster chaps drying saliva and the A'askavariian's secretion from his lips. “Sakaar loves you,” the Grandmaster enthuses. His fond eyes rest on Loki's face. “Let me show you how much. Look, look!”

He guides Loki’s gaze to the other end of the battle pit. A pair of guards hold the bleeding A'askavariian by his many arms. The warrior Topaz extends a staff tipped by a yellow orb.

At first contact, the A'askavariian’s body...melts. It does not burn, it does not crumble. His very biology bursts like a volcano erupting. He screams and fizzles into a puddle of greenish-brown stew.

“There now, see?” The Grandmaster draws Loki’s head into his lap. “That awful thing won’t touch you ever again." He pets Loki’s hair with a gentle smile. "You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe on Sakaar."

Loki hides his eyes against the Grandmaster’s robes. Miserable tears cut through the dirt on his face.

The Grandmaster laughs kindly and strokes away Loki’s grief. “Shhh, there there,” he croons. “I've got you.”

*The End*


End file.
